


Finally...

by Harriet_Watson_1895_88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, kiltlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harriet_Watson_1895_88/pseuds/Harriet_Watson_1895_88
Summary: John & Sherlock’s First Kiss.221b, kilts & a little bit of Dutch courage.





	Finally...

It was 02:47 when the sound of the key scratching on the front door as John scrabbled to fit it & turn it in the lock made Sherlock pause mid-phrase before continuing to the next bar. 

Loud, uneven footsteps on the stairs echoed through the empty hallway, the more worn step creaking under the weight of the man climbing them. His polished wooden-soled shoes clacked loudly on the decorative metal trim of each step. 1, 2, 3, 4, stumble, tap, 5, 6.

 

Sherlock smoothly ghosted the bow across the strings, lowering the volume of his playing so he could hear John coming up the stairs. 

Finally John landed at the top with a grumble & threw himself toward the door with a huff & another stumble.

Sherlock turned to face him just as he half-fell through the door, followed by the faint smell of aftershave & sweat & alcohol. Sherlock’s bow paused mid-stroke, his mouth open in an ‘oh’.

His eyes travelled up from John’s intricate laces on his polished brogues, up the thick woollen socks to the bare, softly haired skin of his knees to the tapered base of his thighs which disappeared suddenly under a layer of heavy-weight grey pleated tartan, adorned with a traditional seal-fur sporran & topped off with a long-sleeved grey jacket, matching fitted waistcoat & his slightly wilted white shirt undone at the neck, slightly damp from the heat of the club & the walk home. 

John righted himself clumsily before taking a step & tripping over the corner of the rug. Lightening-quick, Sherlock dumped his violin on the chair & reached for John just as he was about to faceplant the hard wooden floor. Sherlock lunged, his suit trousers protesting at the stretch, & slipped his arms underneath John’s armpits before he could register the fall & swept them upwards & back onto their feet in one smooth motion.

John stumbled forward into Sherlock’s chest but Sherlock had anticipated his lack of balance & compensated by throwing his arm completely around John’s back to support his weight.

“Nice... catch...mmm”, John mumbled as he involuntarily reaches a palm out & flattened it across Sherlock’s chest, a frown suddenly settling across his mouth. Sherlock waited as John’s palm trailed across his shirt buttons from stomach to mid-chest where he stopped at the tightest. “This poor, poor button,” John’s voice was playful, “Never gets a break, does it?” 

Sherlock frowned at John in confusion.

“Your shirts,” John explained, his words slightly slurred by the whiskey Sherlock could smell on his breath, “Soooo tight! Don’t know how you breathe.” John tapped the straining button for emphasis & looked down at the floor unfocused. “I certainly don’t most of the time,” he whispered to nobody in particular.

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up.

“John... I should get yo-“

John suddenly shook himself, righted himself as best he could, & looked up into Sherlock’s face.

“You have NO idea, do you?” He asked, shaking his head. “No idea what you do to people.”

Sherlock smirked. 

“Offend them? Annoy them?”

John poked him in the chest.

“Yeah, that too, but no. You. Just standing there looking like THAT. Like a fucking Adonis with your curls & your cheekbones & your pale skin. S’not fair.”

John bowed his head & Sherlock gripped his waist tighter for fear that he was about to faceplant the carpet again.

“John, I don’t know-“

“No, you DON’T KNOW!” John cut him off again. “You have no bloody clue what you do to me most days, do you?” 

“John...” Sherlock warned, slightly alarmed that John was so drunk.

John suddenly straightened up, sobering slightly.

“No, Sherlock, don’t ‘Jawn’ me, like I’m three sheets to the wind & speaking absolute bollocks at you... I’m not that drunk. Just... a wee bit of Dutch courage!”

Sherlock chuckled.

“You pick up an accent with that kilt?”

John fingered Sherlock’s buttons lightly. 

“Why? Would that make me more appealing to your posh sensibilities?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. What was happening?

John stared up into Sherlock’s sparkling eyes, appeared to stumble so Sherlock lurched forward to stop him from falling. John, suddenly quite a bit more sober than he had seemed when he had walked in a few minutes ago, used the opportunity to grip Sherlock by the lapels, twist him so that he was stumbling backwards & planted Sherlock firmly into his leather chair. John landed on his lap with an ooomph, his nose level with Sherlock’s brow. 

John shifted his position so that he was now straddling Sherlock’s lap, the sporran lying heavy against the top of Sherlock’s thighs.

“Made some deductions of my own, you see,” John smirked. “You like men in kilts.” 

Sherlock just stared wide-eyed.

“So, I figured, hey, why not give it a shot? What’s the worst that could happen? Gotta try to get your bloody attention somehow, right?”

Sherlock’s pupils darkened as John began stroking Sherlock’s chest, his fingers working apart Sherlock’s shirt at the nape of his neck & placing two fingers across his pulse point.

John sank down further into Sherlock’s lap as he brought them nose to nose, John’s breath heavy across Sherlock’s lips. He held his gaze for several long moments before smirking devilishly & leaning down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“One thing I learned from you... I took your pulse,” he whispered before pulling back, placing his hands gently either side of Sherlock’s face & leaning down to gently brush his lips across Sherlock’s. 

John tasted like salt & whiskey & vinegar from the chips he’d picked up on the way home to sober himself up. And the heady mix of aftershave & the smell that Sherlock could only define as John was playing havoc with Sherlock’s senses at this proximity.

Sherlock moaned & ran his tongue along John’s lips as John hungrily opened his mouth & began to deeply stroke Sherlock’s tongue with his own. Sherlock shifted beneath John, deeper & lower into the chair as his hand found John’s thighs beneath the heavy tartan fabric. His long fingers tightened around the muscle, causing John to gasp into the kiss & slide his hands into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer. Tongues clashed between laboured breaths as Sherlock gripped John around the waist & pulled him closer. 

John pulled back, panting, struggling to catch his breath & gazed down into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Thought this was all transport?”, he smirked.

Sherlock beamed & raised an eyebrow.

“Thought you weren’t gay?”

“Touché,” John nodded as his eyes drifted from Sherlock’s down to his lips & stayed fixed there. John teased his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes remained fixed on Sherlock’s swollen red lips. 

“Enough talking.”


End file.
